


Margarita, Blended

by black_ink_tide



Series: 'Coffee, Blackverse' [2]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Backstory, Desk Sex, F/M, Heart Scar, Open Relationship, Shower Sex, TA sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-26
Updated: 2011-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-23 02:24:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/black_ink_tide/pseuds/black_ink_tide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Side story to 'Coffee, Black' per a prompt on the k-meme wanting to know that story of how Isabela and Andy got together.<br/>Takes place some time after Chapter 43 of 'Coffee, Black'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Margarita, Blended

She looks like a gypsy princess. Like Esmerelda from The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

The Disney one, not the, actual literary one.

How we managed to pull this off without her knowing anything about it I’ll never really understand. She knows stuff. Isabela has fingers in all kinds of pies.

But in a way, I guess that’s probably part of the reason they’ve been together for so long; Andy knows stuff too and is fingering just as many--

 _Wait. No. Nevermind._

We rented out The Hanged Man for her birthday and we managed to keep it a surprise.

To be fair, it’s a Sunday night and the amount of people we brought in is more than the amount of people who would have wandered in from the docks on an un-rented Sunday night… so… it’s win-win. We talked Corff (that can’t be his real name) into making tacos, normally a Tuesday-only affair.

There are people here I’ve never met before. College friends, I’ve been told, that Andy invited and Leliana and Varric's _Quiver -- An Evening_ director, Duncan.

Karaoke is blaring and the tequila is _flowing_.

Isabela is in fine form. Gorgeous, glowing like a light bulb and the center of attention. She’s perched on Duncan’s thigh and laughing hard, her head thrown back as a guy with flaming red hair starts ripping into a god awful version of, _You Oughtta Know_.

Andy flops down next to me in the booth, coughing into his hand. My chest aches in sympathy.

“You doing okay?”

He nods and drinks his beer, “It’s just a cold. I’ll live.”

This particular cold made its way through the staff of Bianca’s like wildfire and Andy, who is more or less an honorary staff member at this point ( _he nobly fixed the Golgatha-esque toilet one heinously disastrous afternoon and earned a lifetime of free coffee in return… just coffee though. If he wants anything fancy he still has to pay_ ) is the latest victim.

Isabela cheers and applauds, catcalling as the red-headed guy reaches the most profane part of the song.

" _...and are you thinking of me when you_ , oh, do I have to say it?! Fine! _FUCKHER_..."

I look at Isabela. Duncan strokes her thigh, which is largely left exposed by the short skirt she’s wearing.

I glance at Andy.

“Look at Merrill,” he says under his breath, leaning closer to me.

She’s mooning over the karaoker, holding a very pink margarita that looks comically large in her hands.

“I think she’s got Ginger-Fever,” he says, smiling, “every time there’s a cute redhead--”

“Gingervitis?” I offer.

He throws his head back and laughs, setting off another dry coughing jag.

I slap his back.

He winces and leans back after a minute, rubbing a hand against the center of his chest.

Duncan’s fingers have meandered under the hem of her skirt.

Andy drinks.

“Think I’m on my own tonight,” he says, and clear his throat, then looks around behind him at the empty half of the bar, “unless there’s someone here who wants to play out some kind of sanitarium role-play with an invalid.”

“Is that... a tuberculosis joke?”

He laughs, “Yes, Garrett. Yes it is.”

“Hmm,” I check my phone, “I don’t know much longer I’m in for.”

I had the cold last week and I still feel a little shitty.

I managed to pass it along to Fen, who has now carried it with him out of town to a wedding in the north coast… so… we plague-rats have done our job well.

 _I felt awful._

 _I made him soup to make amends._

 _Real chicken noodle soup._

 _I made noodles._

 _It was intense._

“We could hang out, if you want,” I say, putting my phone back in my pocket.

“Oh, really? You’re into the sanitarium thing? Or… if not, I could be Doc Holiday and you could be Wyatt Earp.”

“As fun as that sounds…” I roll my eyes, "I think I'll pass."

"You're such a dream-crusher, Garrett Hawke."

"I know."

Isabela has turned around and is now comfortably settled in Duncan’s lap, her arms around his neck, his hands on her hips. The college friends are egging them on.

“How’d you meet?” I ask.

“Me and Bela?”

“Yeah… I’ve still never heard that story.”

“It’s a good story,” he drinks.

“Well?”

He laughs, and rubs his chin, “It starts off pretty sordid.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

“I was her TA.”

I sigh, “Uh-huh.”

“And she was failing this really easy comparative religions course… which, I mean, I graded everything, and I had to give her the grades she was getting because she was handing in this shitty work. But… I knew she was fucking brilliant. So… she was failing. And she came into my office hours to…” he laughs, “to try and turn that around.”

“That is sordid!”

“I know! I was about three weeks from completely dropping out of grad school at that point, so… I figured, what the hell. And it was…” he shakes his head, wistful, “it was a game changer.”

>>>

He has office hours.

But it’s not like anyone ever comes in. So, if nothing else, it’s actual time to grade because there is nothing else to do in his office.

The department has left him here all year to rot in the Siberia of the building… there are no windows and thick depressing cinderblock walls made worse by bad florescent lighting.

And an office-mate who eats nothing but steamed broccoli.

It’s almost like they want him to leave and they’re just trying to squeeze him out.

He’s considering it. And every flicker of the light above him makes his decision to pursue life beyond grad school that much more seriously.

A knock on his open nuke-proof door actually startles him.

He jumps and turns in one motion.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

Isabela, Monday-Wednesday 10:30 in room 212.

He knows why she’s here.

She’s got that look.

“I wanted to talk to you about my grade,” she says, tucking a strand of purple hair behind her heavily pierced ear.

“Okay.”

“And this paper?” she pulls out the five page paper he remembers all too well, “I think you graded this unfairly.”

“Did I?” he leans back, “Come on in and tell me why.”

There is a part of him that actually enjoys this.

Undergrads put no effort whatsoever into actually writing papers, but they’re totally willing to come in and fight him tooth and nail when they get graded appropriately.

Like he’s just going to change their grade.

Well, maybe he would if anyone ever had an legitimately strong argument.

She steps in, the leather of her boots creaking and sits in the empty chair by his desk.

“This is a well-written paper,” she holds it out to him.

He looks at it, and at her chipped silver nails, “It had nothing to do with the assignment. ‘Write five pages on the concept of Transubstantiation.’ You turned in five pages of, explicit, sexual fiction.”

“Uhh… about transubstantiation.”

He smirks. He can’t help it.

“Yeah,” he flips open the stapled pages and reads, “‘ _…she tasted the sweet, hot divinity of salt; flesh in her mouth, the transformation happening, there, against the smooth pink coil of her tongue. Bread into flesh into herself, yeast and skin, as his wine poured down her throat. ‘Take me into yourself,’ he grunted, ‘swallow me and be saved.’'_ ”

She’s smiling, “And?”

“You wrote Jesus smut.”

She shrugs, “But it’s on topic. Your prompt was vague and unspecific. I think you need to see this as a lesson on specificity for the future.”

“I’m not changing your grade.”

“Tell me this; that was the best paper you got, though, right?”

It was.

He’d re-read it twice over a beer and sent a copy to Karl with the best parts highlighted.

“It’s not a creative writing course, it’s a comparative-religions course.”

“Same thing.”

He smiles and turns to the last page, looking at the grade and notes he wrote.

 _D-_

 _Not even close to being on-topic._

 _You can do better than this._

“What major are you?” he asks, glancing up at her.

“Business.”

“Do you just not care about this?”

“Not especially.”

“That’s kind of insulting to me. My job is to make you care.”

“Is it?”

No.

His job is to stand there are read the lecture notes and lead a discussion and give out homework and then read and grade 100 boring papers. If they didn’t care… he wasn’t going to _Mr. Holland’s Opus_ a room full of disinterested juniors when he hardly cared about the subject himself.

“Look,” she takes the paper back from him and puts it on his desk, “I need to keep my GPA high enough that I don’t lose my financial aid. So. What can we do here?”

“Like… extra credit?”

“Something like that,” she purrs and leans toward him, sliding her fingers up the tops of his thighs.

“Whoa,” he says half-heartedly, “that’s--”

She looks at him, dark brown eyes big and dark and perfectly sane.

That’s really all he asks.

Sanity.

“I know about you and Professor Thekla,” she says, leaning further, the curve of her breasts brushing his knees.

“Are you blackmailing me?”

“No. Not at all,” she says, seriously, “just… that I know that you… that you’re probably morally okay with this.”

He shouldn’t be okay with this.

But he is.

Because he’s a bad person.

“Shut the door.”

She bites her lip and stands, going to the door and shutting it with a click.

He’s a bad man.

A worse TA.

He’s a terrible grad student.

He’s…

“Oh, fuck!”

She’s fast. Kneeling between his spread thighs, kissing her way up his inseam while her hands are busy undoing his belt.

“Isa… Isabela,” he balls his hands on the arms of the chair.

“Lift up,” she says, smirking up at him.

He raises his hips and she tugs his jeans and boxers down far enough to get his cock free.

“Oh, Jesus,” he lets his head fall back.

Her breath is hot against him but she doesn’t touch him.

“Do you… do this a lot?” he asks, seeing stars.

“No. You’re my first.”

His head shoots up and he scoots the chair back, “ _What_?!”

“Not my _first_. Jesus. No… my first _TA_.”

“Oh,” that’s more acceptable, he supposes.

“I… like you.”

“You like me?”

He looks down at her. She’s looking up at him, earnest, and for the moment seemingly unaffected by his unabashedly hard cock bobbing inches from her chin.

“Yeah. You’re funny. And I like your gages.”

“I was thinking of taking them out."

"Don't."

"I… like your hair.”

“Thanks.”

“And your Jesus Smut.”

“Thank you.”

She presses her lips against the underside of his cock and smiles.

He groans wordlessly at the paneled ceiling.

Her mouth is hot, burning hot, and his mind goes completely blank as she sinks down, smooth and in control and…

He looks down at her because he needs to see this to know that it's actually happening.

Her beautiful full lips spread around his cock almost finishes him then.

“Unh… wait…” he pushes her back.

She sits back on her heels, wiping the corner of her mouth with one hand and continuing to stroke him lazily with the other, “What?”

“I… I want…”

“Use your words, TA,” she smirks.

“Can I fuck you on my desk?”

If he’s going to TA-hell… which it seems like he might be… he wants to have really earned it. No half measures. Not his style.

She laughs gently and kisses the head of his cock sweetly, “Do you have a condom?”

“I…” he looks down at her, “uh…”

“I’m on the pill, but…” she shrugs, “No glove no love.”

“If that’s your policy you should really be using one… for…” he swallows, then shakes his head, “In my wallet.”

She lets go of him and reaches around to get his wallet from his back pocket.

“You know that you shouldn’t keep them in your wallet,” she says, taking it out and examining the wrapper, “Your body heat breaks down the structural integrity of the latex.”

“I won’t. I’ll stop,” he says, “I’ll see this as a lesson.”

She smiles and tears the wrapper open.

When she rolls it onto him, cupping his balls with the other hand, he reaches for her hair.

“You’re _beautiful_.”

“So are you.”

She stands up and shimmies a pair of black panties down under her skirt, kicking them off her feet. The skirt, however, stays on.

He pushes it up, standing and turning her, pinning her under himself, until she’s flat on the desk.

It seems like such a waste to not take off her sweater… he reaches up to cup one breast and groans when he feels the hard metal of a piercing in her right nipple through the layers of cotton.

A proper waste, but, in the interest of time…

He smooths two fingers down along her slit, opening her up.

She’s watching his face.

He ghosts his fingertips over her clit.

Gauging her reaction, he adjusts pressure and tempo; he smiles at her, close, and kisses her cheek.

She grabs his hips and pulls him forward, his hand still caught between them.

He braces himself with the other hand on the corkboard wall above her head and thrusts in.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Oh, God,” she answers, letting herself fall back, grabbing an overturned pencil cup that’s rolled under her back and throwing it across the room behind him.

“This is so fucking hot!” he says.

“I know! Ahh… keep fucking!”

“Okay!”

He does. Hard and fast. She’s tight and hot around him and there’s something so unspeakably dirty about the fact that she’s still mostly entirely dressed and that he’s still wearing his college hoodie and that his jeans are twisted around his ankles.

Leather boots cross at the small of his back and he pushes in deeper.

She grabs his hair.

“Angle up.”

“What?”

“Angle--” she adjust her hips and sighs, “yeah. There. That’s…”

He thinks, _Who the hell is this girl?_

 _Her face… she’s fucking beautiful._ She's the most beautiful girl he's ever seen.

Maybe that's not true. But it's true then, in that moment.

A huge part of it is that she knows what she wants.

And she wants him.

And he’s--

He is really fucking a student on his desk.

That’s a real thing that’s happening to him.

“Oh…” she tugs his hair, hands fisting, “I’m close.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

She opens her eyes and looks at him.

He rubs her clit, and babbles, “Please, baby, please come. I want you to come. ”

“Oh, fuck, me too,” she answers, pulling his face towards her, “Look at me.”

He does.

He holds her gaze until her eyes roll back, fluttering closed and she breathes out, her breath is hot and he smells cinnamon Altoids and himself.

She comes around him, clenching and twisting her hips and he thinks she may have pulled out some of his hair but he doesn’t give a shit and he fucks her, desperate and loud and, he’s laughing as he comes, because it just feels so good and when you feel that good you just laugh.

He pulls out of her after a minute of just lying there dazed.

He pulls off the condom and ties it off before dropping in into the trashcan and discreetly shifting some discarded flyers to bury it.

When he looks up, she’s still lying on his desk, legs spread and…

 _He’s definitely going to hell._

He sits in his chair and scoots to the desk, leveling his face with her slit and breathing in.

“Oh, fuck yes…” she moans, as he leans forward and licks gently.

“You taste amazing.”

“I’m sure I taste like latex, but you’re sweet to say so,” she answers.

He laughs, and kisses her.

He eats her out, her legs draped over his shoulders, and when she comes this time, she moans his name.

It’s the first time she’s said it at all.

They clean up, re-dress, and make out for a little bit before reopening the door.

“Why does it smell like broccoli in here?” she asks him, toying with the gages in his ears.

“Ugh. I’m sure it smells like broccoli and sex in here now… that’s… pleasant.”

She picks up her bag, “So… about my grade?”

“Oh my god, really?” he runs a hand through his short hair, and says with mock anguish, “Is that all I am to you?”

“No. But…” she shrugs, “It’d be a load off my mind if I didn’t need to worry about my GPA anymore.”

“I think you’ll be fine,” he says.

She kisses him on the mouth, sweetly.

“See you on Monday, Tiger.”

>>>

Andy smiles, “I gave her a B-. Didn’t want to draw attention, you know…”

“Sure.”

“And the rest was history.”

“Whoa. Hold on… how do you get from that to…” I gesture broadly, “This.”

He looks at me, considering. He looks tired.

“I dropped out, lived off of loans. I stayed there because I didn’t really have anywhere else to go, you know? We ended up hooking up randomly for the rest of the academic year. _Maybe_ the sex played a role in the whole, ‘I stuck around in a college town when I was no longer going to college’ thing. And anyway, eventually, I fell in love with her. As you do.”

He blinks, and pauses to cough.

“She wasn’t interested in that… and normally I wouldn’t have been either, but I was needy and broke and wallowing. And that’s not attractive. So she told me that she didn’t want to see me anymore. We went our separate ways, and I cleaned up my act and started writing, got some stuff published, got a play produced, and then, about a year later, I ran into her again at a bar,” he laughs, “And she comes over to me and is just, perfect, right? She’s Bela. So she comes up to me and I’m thinking, ‘Oh, god, yes!’ and then she grabs me and says, ‘Andy! You’ve got to help me get into that girl’s pants.’”

I laugh.

“That was the first thing she said to me in a year! So I did. And she got into that girl’s pants, because while I’m a man of few marketable skills… I _can_ get people laid. And then, I ran into her again at this twee art gallery thing, and she told me all about. All about it. And we went out, because, the way she told it, it was a long story and we got hungry. And then that night she,” he laughs, “she got me into a different girl’s pants… you know, to say thanks.”

“It’s very… Emily Post of her.”

“Exactly! And then, it just… became a thing. She was my best friend, we went out a lot. Wingmanned each other. And apart from that, we started spending a lot of time together in non-wingman capacity. And then,” he clears his throat, which is sounding more hoarse by the second, and waits until a different college friend takes to the stage and starts singing ‘Beyond the Sea’ to start talking again, “So, when I was a kid, I had this, right?”

He touches his chest.

“It’s called Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome; I was born with a broken heart,” he says with a dramatic sigh.

“Which is a line I’m sure you’ve never, ever used on anyone.”

“Never. Ever. No,” he smiles, “Why would I ever do something like prey on someone's sympathy about being a poor sickly little blue baby with a broken heart? Ideally, when you’re a baby with my broken heart, you’d get a new heart. But, there aren’t a lot of donated hearts, so I’ve always had to make do with the one I got. And I was fine, until I turned twenty-six.”

>>>

“Please open the door.”

She’s been standing there outside for a long time.

“I’m not leaving.”

He opens the deadbolt and lets the door swing on its loose hinge.

“Jesus,” she walks in, “Are you drunk?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“No.”

“But you did it anyway?”

“Yes.”

She closes the door.

He kisses her, holding her face between his hands and pushing her hard against the door.

“Andy.”

“I don’t want to think about it.”

“It’s going to be fine,” she says confidently against his mouth, “tomorrow is just exploratory.”

He’s just drunk enough to be a little blurry.

A little unguarded.

He hasn’t shaved and his hair is down and shaggy and his whole body feels hot.

“Let’s take a shower.”

He doesn’t move.

“I’m…”

“Mortal?”

He buries his hot face in her neck, “I don’t want them to cut me open again, Bela.”

“They’re not cutting you open, Tiger,” she reaches around to hold his neck, “Tomorrow is just a little scope. They’ll poke around, take some pictures and then I’ll be there when you wake up.”

“I haven’t done anything yet…” he mutters against her skin.

His heart had started beating irregularly about a month before.

It had just gotten progressively worse until he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

“You’ve done lots,” she says.

“Not really,” he shifts his weight, “who would remember me if I die tomorrow? And for what?”

“Now you’re just getting maudlin,” she says, pushing him back.

He lets her, standing there and laughing thickly, absently covering his heart with his hand.

His shields are never this far down.

She goes into his bathroom and starts a shower, waiting for the water to heat up before stripping down and getting in. She closes the periodic table of elements curtain, but she knows he’s standing on the other side.

“Get in here,” she says, getting her hair wet.

She hears his belt unfasten and the thunk of his jeans dropping to the tile floor.

He gets in, head down.

She touches the scar on his chest with her fingertip and he flinches away from her.

“Stop it,” she says and his eyes snap to her, “Listen. It’s scary. I get that. Go ahead and be scared. But just in here. I’m here for you in this shower, so… go ahead and cry or scream or fuck me or whatever it is that you need to do, but then when we get out and dry off, we’re going to sit on the couch and drink some water and watch a movie and not be scared anymore, okay?”

He smiles at her, “You’re really smart, you know that?”

“I do, yeah,” she wipes water from her eyes.

“And you’re my best friend.”

“I know that, too.”

He chooses the last coping option.

They have sex wedged awkwardly in the bathtub with the shower still running. Her knees bruise on the fiberglass floor as she rides him, and the shower water stings his eyes but he shouts when he comes and lets go of the sense of dread that’s been weighing on him.

She immediately starts vocally complaining about her knees, and how uncomfortable this is and how she won’t be able to wear anything short with bare legs now--

And he starts laughing. Hard. Loudly. With his head back and shower water in his mouth and an angry wet Isabela wriggling on top of him and elbowing him hard as she tries to get up.

He pulls her down against himself and she gives in, finding a position on him that’s as comfortable as she’s going to get.

He pushes her wet hair away from her face.

She lays her cheek over his heart.

“Better?!” she grouses, smiling.

“Much.”

>>>

“It all ended up being okay, I didn’t even need major surgery… just drugs. But she stuck with me,” Andy says softly, “and we tried to date exclusively after that… but…” he laughs, shrugging, “We both ended up cheating, which, was stupid. And instead of hating each other, which we couldn’t do… we tried something different. And it works really fucking well and has for the last, _wow_ , five years.”

“Hmm…” he’s not looking at me, but her.

I want to hug him because I feel like he’s just revealed something to me… and when I reveal something I usually feel extra vulnerable and in need of hugs. He looks at me with bright, un-angsty eyes though, and I refrain from hugging. For now. “What were you studying?”

“What?”

“In grad school.”

“Oh!” he laughs and looks at me, “Russian Lit by that time. I originally thought I wanted to be a doctor, though. Christ, can you even imagine that? Ha!”

 _Not in any non-roleplay situations._

“Andy!” Merrill jumps into the booth, sitting across the table from us, “Oh, Andy. You look terrible.”

“Thanks?”

“No! I just mean--”

He shakes his head, “No, I know, sweetheart. I’m calling it a night, I think.”

“I wanted to ask…” she leans across the table, “that guy, the ginger. What do you know about him?”

Andy smiles, “Gilly? He’s… he’s a sweetheart. You should go talk to him. His name is Roland, but, don’t call him that.”

“Gilly?” she bites her lip, “Gilly.”

She downs a few gulps of margarita and then darts away, leaving her glass at the table.

I take it and drink what’s left.

“Well,” he pats my leg, “I’m done.”

“You put in a good showing,” I follow him as he gets out of the booth and starts pulling on his coat, “When I was sick, I could hardly get out of bed at all.”

“It’s her birthday,” he shrugs, coughing.

I hear her rather than see her. She’s wearing a lot of necklaces and she jingles, like a jiggly, drunk reindeer, rushing past me and hugging him tightly.

He kind of folds over her, hugging her back, “Happy Birthday, Beautiful.”

“Are you going home?”

“Yeah. There’s a bottle of NyQuil with my name on it.”

“Well that sounds fun. Got enough to share?”

He kisses the top of her head, “What about…”

“Well,” she pulls back, and looks over her shoulder at Duncan, “I don’t think he’ll sleep over. Besides, I like you when you’re a little feverish. It’s so cozy. You’re like a big, wheezing electric blanket.”

He laughs, wheezily.

She goes to kiss him but he pulls back, “I’m sick! Not on the mouth!”

“I already had it,” she pouts, then tries again, “I probably gave it to you.”

“But…” he looks at Duncan, “he hasn’t caught it yet, right?”

“Oh, fine. Later though, no excuses.”

“Later.”

She hugs me, and I say, “Happy Birthday!” and her necklaces get stuck on the buttons of my shirt and Andy disentangles us before she goes back over to Duncan, prancing and jingling and… jiggling.

We walk outside.

“You love her.”

“Of course I do.”

“She loves you too.”

He smiles, “I know.”

I couldn’t do it.

It’s not… it’s not my way.

But for them?

He’s still smiling as we walk quietly to our cars. He knows.

I hug him then because I can.

“How’s your heart now?” I ask, holding on to him.

“Fine. Good.”

“You shouldn’t smoke. Or drink. Or eat all the crap you eat. Or drink all the coffee--”

He kisses my cheek, laughing and I let him go.

“I promise you, I’m healthy as a horse. Do you really think she’d let me get away with all the shit I do if I wasn’t?”

“That’s an excellent point!”

“Night, Garrett.”

“Night, Wheezy Electric Blanket.”

I hear him laugh as he closes his car door.


End file.
